When was I going to stop piecing together a degree in police work? If I’d approached my career in physics this way, I thought, I’d have been thrown out of the American Institute of Physics long ago.
Lorna stopped squirming abruptly, switched to a thoughtful pose, during which I supposed we were to assume she was searching her memory banks. She moved her head up and down slowly. A reflective nod. “Yes, I do remember the name. You understand, I don’t personally interact with everyone on the list. It’s a composite of all the contacts of all my groups.”
“But you’re the groups’ leader, aren’t you? The head of the whole nanotechnology program?” I asked.
“Yes, but—well, let me ask you this. Do all of you law enforcement people work closely together? For example, do you immediately share whatever I tell you here with other agencies?”
Berger gave her a questioning look, but I knew where Lorna was going. And I finally understood the real reason she’d offered to come in and “cooperate.” She’d been visited by FDA agents, who probably told her less than they told us, and she was fishing for information. She’d come to get information, not to give it. Very nice trick, I told her, but not out loud.
I struck a pensive pose myself. “I guess the FDA agents asked you for an alibi?” I asked her in a light tone, almost sympathetic.
Lorna sighed heavily. “They did, and I just wondered …” She threw up her hands.
“If the Revere police consider you a suspect in Nina Martin’s death?” I finished for her, compassionate. How could they? my tone said.
Lorna relaxed a bit and Berger took the opportunity to jump in. “What were you doing that night, by the way, Dr. Frederick?” He tapped his pen on the desk pad, his slightly pudgy face expressionless. Warm cop, cold cop. Maybe Matt and I should adopt this interview strategy, I thought.
“I rode my horse, as I often do after work, then went home. I already told this to Detective Gennaro.”
Berger nodded, wrote in his notebook, and studied the page for several seconds.
“And you don’t know Dr. Simpson?” he asked, tapping again, suspicious.
“I know him, but not really well.”
Lorna stood, her habit when she lost control of a meeting, it seemed. But I had one more question.
“I see you’ve listed a veterinarian on your contact page. Dr. Timothy Schofield. I happen to know Dr. Schofield from our volunteer work with Revere High students.”
A friendly comment about a mutual acquaintance, casually made, but Lorna’s swallow was audible. “Oh?” The reaction I’d hoped for. She didn’t have to know I could barely describe the man. I remembered little other than his exceptionally shiny bald head.
“How are veterinarians connected to the buckyball program?”
Another flustered movement as she caught part of her bright green fringe on a deep scratch in the metal chair. She bit her lip, then said, “Probably as consultants on animal testing.”
“So, some of your programs require testing on animals?”
“Not exactly.” She picked up her briefcase and gave it an annoyed tug, as if it were at fault for a meeting gone wrong. “Well, thank you for seeing me. I won’t take any more of your time.”
Lorna Frederick’s exit had less flair than her entrance.
“Nice job,” Berger said, after Lorna left. It seemed strange coming from him, and not my real partner, now encased in a Styrofoam cradle. “What was that about a vet?”
“Someone I found at the last minute, on her consultant list. It so happens I know this vet, and I plan to ask him about his connection to her.” I paused. This was not Matt. I couldn’t appear to investigate on my own. “If that’s okay with you,” I said, trying to sound meek.
Berger smiled. “Go for it.”
I could only hope my relationship with Jean would develop as well.
Halfway down Fernwood Avenue, I could see that Jean’s BMW was gone. A flood of relief came over me, not just because I’d had enough of her, but it meant Matt was fine; otherwise, I was sure, she’d have stayed.
“Good news,” Matt said, as soon as he heard me come through the door.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Oh?”
No cancer, I thought. No tumor, no treatments. A miracle, like the Virgin Birth or the resurrection of Lazarus.
“They found Wayne Gallen and issued his PFA. The bike shop owner gave them the lead.”
This information paled next to the wonders I’d come up with, but I was relieved nonetheless.
“Terrific, now let’s hope it doesn’t make him even angrier at MC.” Or me. “How are you?”